


Roped, Trussed and Branded

by mific



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Alternate Universe - Western, Angst, Eventual Happy Ending, Fanfiction, First Time, M/M, Soul Bond, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-25 13:56:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17122646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mific/pseuds/mific
Summary: Soul-bonding wasn't all that common, but it was a well-known fact that when you met your soulmate their brand appeared somewhere on your body.





	Roped, Trussed and Branded

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Antares](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Antares/gifts).



> Written for the 2018 SGA Secret Santa - hope you enjoy it, Antares! 
> 
> This started out as a bit of cracky fun, but then it went kind of serious on me, because, soul-bonding - there's always some angst. 
> 
> The "choose not to warn" is because there's always an element of dubious consent with the soul-bonding trope, but this certainly isn't non-con, and it's McShep, so you know the boys'll work it out. :)

***

Soul-bonding wasn't all that common, but it was a well-known fact that when you met your soulmate their brand appeared somewhere on your body.

John's hurt like hell when it appeared, but he was tough. He was a cowboy, and he could sure as hell handle a little pain. He just hadn't expected the brand to appear on his ass, which was damned inconvenient for riding and sitting around in bars drinking liquor, both of which activities John enjoyed.

He twisted around, peering over his shoulder, but Doc Beckett pushed him back down. "You're a damn fool, John Sheppard, riding twenty miles on a new branding."

John was feeling pretty goddamn silly lying face down on the doc's kitchen table with his ass waving in the air, his pants and chaps pushed down so the doc could tend to his badly inflamed left ass cheek. "Not a whole lotta choice there, doc," he muttered between gritted teeth—whatever salve the doc was using stung like a nest of scorpions. "I was way the heck up north in Gold Diggers' Gully when it happened."

"Unusual for it to appear when you were in such an isolated place," Beckett said thoughtfully, pressing a clean linen pad over the salve.

John bit his lip to stifle a whimper. "Yeah, what's up with that? No soulmates up there for a man, lessen he's got himself a hankering to cozy up to a rattlesnake."

"Well, from the reading I've done, it means your soulmate's in the vicinity," Beckett said, turning away to wipe his hands on a cloth. "They'll be somewhere nearby where you've a chance to run into them. Most likely in town here, Atlantis being the nearest settlement to the Gully."

Beckett helped John ease his tight leather pants back up, and John rolled over and buttoned his flies, buckling his belt. The pants would keep the dressing in place well enough; it wasn't like he was a citified dandy given to wearing lavender-scented drawers. John shivered, the thought of scented silk sliding smooth between his thighs a powerful momentary distraction. But no, damn it—leather next to the skin was all a cowboy needed. Well, all a gold prospector needed, since that was his current profession.

John slid to the floor and retrieved his gun belt, buckling it on and reflexively checking both pistols were loaded before sliding them into the holsters. He carefully didn't meet Beckett's eyes, picking up his hat and jamming it back on his head to cover the inevitable cowlicks. He cleared his throat. "So, what'd it say, doc?"

Beckett shook his head, frowning. "Not a brand I've ever seen around here, lad, on people or cattle, and it was a little hard to read, what with you getting it all inflamed. It says 'MRM' I think, in a bottle shape. Here, like this."

Taking a sheet of notepaper from the sideboard, he drew the design.

John took the paper and stared at it, puzzled. "Nope, never seen one like it," he said, pushing his hat forward to scratch the back of his neck. "There any new folks in town?"

"I've seen none today, but I've not been out of the house, what with a string of minor ailments to deal with. There's an ague going around."

John sighed. "Well, that's just dandy. Now I gotta hunt down my soulmate as well as working my claim in the Gully so's to make ends meet."

"You'll not be riding back up north for a week or so, not 'til that brand's healed," Beckett said, wagging a finger. "You're on a wild goose chase up there anyway, laddie. Everyone knows the Gully's tapped out. You're barely finding enough gold to survive."

"I've got faith my luck'll change, doc," John said, clapping Beckett on the shoulder. He folded the paper and tucked it in a pocket, turned away to slide his duster coat back on, then paused, biting his lip. "Look, about the bill. I don't have the cash to cover it right now, but soon as I score a nugget or two I’ll come settle up with you."

"Away wi' ye," Beckett said, waving him out the door. "I'm not fussed about a few pennies for literally saving your sorry ass, John Sheppard. I've done it enough times, over the years."

"Well, that's just the plain truth," John said ruefully, "and I'm mighty grateful, that's for sure."

"Come back tomorrow for a fresh dressing. And no riding, d'ye hear?"

"Jumper'll be glad of the rest," John said, nodding. The tall black gelding was tied to the rail outside the Pegasus Saloon, having drunk his fill at the trough.

He stepped out onto the porch, pausing for a moment with his hand on the wooden railing. For all the banter, he was worried. He had hardly any savings, and no gold at all to show for the last two weeks of backbreaking work in the Gully. His credit with Elizabeth at the saloon and at Campbell's general store was still good, but that wouldn't last long, not with a bed for himself and oats for Jumper on the tab.

Maybe it was just as well the brand would keep him in town a while. He was going to have to get a job.

***

In the saloon, John bought a beer from Radek Zelenka, the little Czech who manned the bar for Elizabeth, and propped one foot on the railing as he drank. He was going to be drinking standing up for some time, might as well get used to it. Ladon from the card sharks' table called him over for a game, but John waved him off. He wasn't likely to sit down at cards, for a whole hat load of reasons.

"Are you in town for long, John?" Zelenka inquired, polishing a glass.

"Yeah, a while," John said. "I got a... minor injury needs to heal. Doc Beckett wants me to rest up some."

"I'm sorry to hear that, but we will enjoy your custom," Zelenka said, eyes twinkling behind his spectacles.

"Not if I run out of cash, you won't," John said. "Which means I need employment that don't involve anything as strenuous as riding and prospecting."

"Hmm," Zelenka said, looking thoughtful. "I may know of an opportunity."

"Yeah?" John said, raising an eyebrow. "What is it?"

"Is a gentleman staying at Mistress Emmagan's rooming house. He was asking around for a guide to take him to Gold Digger's Gully."

John narrowed his eyes. "Another prospector?"

Zelenka shrugged. "Calls himself an inventor. Says he has machine to test which will, to quote him: 'revolutionize gold prospecting and make me a millionaire many times over, which is only fitting, since I'm a genius.'" Zelenka gave John a wry look. "You understand, I was able to memorize this as he said it more than once."

"You didn't take to him then?" John asked with a smirk.

Zelenka sniffed. "He assumed because I work here I am an uneducated peasant."

That was far from the case. Zelenka was writing a treatise on some complicated aspect of railroad engineering, and John knew full well he only lived here and worked the bar on account of being besotted with Elizabeth.

Zelenka continued. "If he is half as smart as he claims I will eat, well, not my hat as it is a very good hat and my favorite, but I'll eat Mistress Emmagan's cooking."

"A terrifyin' prospect," John said, his grin widening. "This inventor's made of tougher stuff than me if he can stomach it."

"Is quite baffling," Zelenka said, shaking his head. "He claims to _like_ the food there."

"A strange bird indeed," John said, amused, then he sighed. "Well, but I'm not up to riding just now, so guiding's out for me." He guessed he should go see the man anyway since he was new in town, but he didn't sound a likely soulmate for John.

"I heard he was indisposed," Zelenka offered. "It may be that he will not want to ride out yet, while he recovers. There has been an ague going around, keeping the good doctor busy."

Interesting. "Yeah, guess I should check it out," John said. "Oh, hey. I'm gonna need to stable Jumper." He could arrange his own room later; it was cheaper here than at the rooming house. He put two dollars on the bar. "And some oats for him, as well as hay and a rub down. He's tethered out front."

"Never fear, John. Ford will look after him well."

"I don't doubt it," John said. He downed the last of his beer, tipped his hat to Zelenka, and set off for Teyla Emmagan's place.

***

"It is very good to see you, John," said Teyla. "We have missed you since you took up prospecting the Gully.”

"It can get a mite lonely up there," John allowed. He took his hat off and ran a hand through his hair. "Ah, Miz Emmagan–"

"How many times have I told you to call me Teyla, John?" Her voice was reproving but her eyes crinkled in amusement.

"Er, yeah. Once or twice." John scratched the back of his neck, flushing. He was no good with women, easier in the company of men, and he figured Teyla saw right through him. "I, um. Teyla. I came over to see your new guest. Radek Zelenka told me about him."

"Dr. McKay?" Teyla lifted her eyebrows. "Sadly, he is indisposed."

"Right," John said awkwardly. "Zelenka said he maybe had a fever that's been going around."

"No, not a–" Teyla, said, then stopped herself. "But what brings you to see him? He is not so very unwell, and might welcome a visitor." She leaned in conspiratorially. "Do not tell him I said that, for he would be most offended. He is…," she considered her words carefully, "inclined to the dramatic as regards his health."

John spread his hands. "Hey, I can sympathize. I'm a little under the weather myself. Nothin' too serious, just a minor… injury." He saw her looking quizzical and pressed on before she could ask _where_ he was injured. "But I can't ride or prospect and Carson wants me around town where he can change my dressings. I'm lookin' for work."

"Ah." Teyla nodded. "As it happens, I recommended you to Dr. McKay already, as he wishes to visit the Gully." She smiled up at him. "It is perhaps fortunate that you are both indisposed at the same time, for he is not fit to travel so far, either."

"Teylaaaa–" came a plaintive yell from the first floor. John looked up, startled.

Teyla sighed. "He will be wanting more coffee; he drinks a prodigious amount." She nodded towards the stairs. "Go on up, John. First room on the left. I will bring coffee for you both."

John ducked his head. "Mighty obliged to you, Miz… Teyla." He glanced up the stairs again. "Er, is he, like, decent?"

Her mouth curled up slightly. "As much as can be expected," she said, and was gone with a swish of skirts.

John grimaced then climbed the stairs, moving more carefully than usual, the new brand chafing under Carson's dressing. He pushed open the door Teyla had indicated, tapping on it gently.

"Oh, finally!" the man inside said. He must be Dr. McKay. "Put it on the sideboard, would you, Teyla? I'm just looking for my–"

John made a noise somewhere between a snort and a whimper. McKay was down on his knees reaching for something under the bed, his round ass perfectly presented to John in tight, light gray breeches. John swallowed, mouth suddenly dry.

McKay twitched and banged his head on the bed-frame. " _Merde!_ " He wriggled back out, ass-first, rubbing the back of his head. John tried to look away but his eyes seemed glued to McKay's ass. He shifted uncomfortably and moved his hat so it covered the front of his trousers.

"You! You’re not Teyla!" McKay said accusingly, peering back over his shoulder. He scrambled awkwardly to his feet, the pen he'd retrieved clutched in his left hand, the other elbow on the bed to lever himself up. He was a little under John's height, with receding brown hair and striking blue eyes. John saw that his right hand was heavily bandaged. "You're supposed to be Teyla!"

John raised an eyebrow. "Be a few anatomical problems with that," he said, deadpan, gratified to see a pink flush rise in McKay's cheeks. "She sent me up—she's gettin' your coffee." He stepped forward, hand outstretched. "I'm John Sheppard."

"I, oh, I'm sorry. I can't," McKay waved his bandaged hand in explanation. "It's, um... a burn." He looked briefly shifty, and John hoped he never played poker—he had no face for bluffing. "I'm Dr. Rodney McKay," he continued. "Not a medical doctor—I'm a scientist. Astronomy, engineering, geophysics, and the like." McKay glared down at his injured hand. "It's most inconvenient. I'm right-handed, so I can't make proper notes or do calculations. Well, that is, I have limited ambidexterity, but the... burn makes me clumsy. The number of times I've dropped my pen–"

"Put it on a string around your neck," John suggested.

McKay's eyes widened. "That's... actually, that's a good idea. I'll ask Teyla for some."

"Ask me for what, Dr. McKay?" Teyla nudged the door wider open, maneuvering a large tray, and John went to help her, suppressing a wince as he moved. 

"String!" McKay said. "To hang my pen from, around my neck so I won't drop it again. It was his idea." He turned to John. "Um, sorry. Stepford? Shipper? I'm no good with names."

"Sheppard. S-h-e-p-p-a-r-d," John said, because people always spelled it wrong. Not that many of the townsfolk had their letters.

"A sensible idea, indeed," Teyla said, setting the tray down on the sideboard. "But be sure to place the cap securely on it, Dr. McKay, or you will have ink stains on your shirts that even Mr. Lee's laundry cannot eradicate."

"Point taken," McKay said, making a beeline for the coffee, which John had to admit smelled appetizing.

Teyla excused herself to attend to dinner preparations and McKay took his coffee to the only armchair. John refused his offer to sit on the bed, preferring to prop himself on the mantelpiece. "Heard you want to go to Gold Diggers' Gully," he said, sipping his coffee. "I know the place, could act as a guide of you're in need of one."

"Not with this," McKay said, frowning at his bandaged hand. "Or rather, not yet. I won't be fit to travel for several days, maybe a week."

John shrugged. "I'm in much the same fix, so that suits me fine." Curiosity got the better of him. "How'd you come to hurt your hand?"

McKay flushed. "I don't believe in all that claptrap," he said obscurely, then appeared to recollect his earlier tale. "Er, about burns, and putting butter on them. Unscientific nonsense.”

"So you've seen Doc Beckett, then?"

McKay scowled. "I can manage perfectly well without some local charlatan making it worse." He looked up at John, blue eyes sharp over the rim of his coffee cup. "Will your own injury be healed in a week?"

"Surely hope so," John said. He pulled an apologetic face. "Beckett won't let me get back in the saddle until it's healed. It's in an inconvenient place for riding."

McKay's eyes dropped to John's groin, then he flushed and looked away, clearing his throat. "I, ah, I'd still like to employ you. There are preparations to be made, and I fear I've been relying too much on Teyla's generosity in running errands for me. Just light work, nothing that would strain your..." His eyes flicked to John's pants again, then he coughed and busied himself with his coffee.

"I could do with the money, so I'm game," John said, suppressing a grin. "What's your purpose in visiting Gold Diggers' Gully?"

McKay shot him a sardonic look. "The name rather gives it away, I'd have thought. I'm a scientist, an inventor. I wish to test my latest triumph, the McKay Patented Gold-Mining Apparatus."

John raised an eyebrow. "Yeah? How's it work?"

McKay frowned and waved at a briefcase near the bed. "Bring me that case. I can't discuss it or indeed employ you at all unless you sign a Non-Disclosure Agreement. Teyla's an admirable judge of character I'm sure, but _I_ don't know you from Adam."

John fetched him the case. "You do know you're in the Wild West out here, McKay? Folks don't put much stock in lawyers in these parts."

McKay pulled some papers from the satchel and paused. "Are you telling me you're not law-abiding?" he asked, his eyes narrowing.

John sighed. "No, you're safe with me. Just don't go expecting everyone else to do what a piece pf paper tells them to. More'n half of them can't even write their names."

He signed McKay's form, then McKay spread a set of blueprints out on the bed and they both leaned in to read the details, McKay explaining the finer points.

John scratched his head. "It's an ingenious device, all right, but I don't see how it'll work in the Gully."  He tapped the blueprint. "This here: it's a steam engine."

"So?" McKay eyed him. "Even out here in this godforsaken backwater you should have heard of steam trains, Sheppard."

John thought of Zelenka's thesis and smiled thinly. "Yeah, we've heard of 'em. They run on water though—a boiler—like this machine of yours. There's not a drop of water in the Gully. Might have been a century ago, but it's long gone."

"Not gone, merely hidden," McKay said confidently. "The river that carved the Gully will still be there, just underground. That's our first task: to drill for it."

John expressed doubt about the ability of any drill to carve through the Gully's rocks and McKay drew a shaky left-handed diagram of the special drill bits he'd brought. By the time Teyla announced dinner McKay had pulled his chair close to the bed which was covered in scribbled diagrams, and John was kneeling there, writing an equation to show McKay that he wasn't going to be able to pump water all the way up to the Gully's head.

McKay pulled back and stared at him. "You're not from around here, are you? Where did you learn mathematics?"

"Back East," John said. He didn't like talking about his family; he and his father were estranged and it had been a bad break-up.

"Huh," McKay said thoughtfully. "Well, we'll continue this over dinner."

"Oh," John said, hauling himself to his feet, knees creaking. Damn it, he wasn't as young as he liked to pretend. "I wasn't planning on imposin' on Miz Emmagan–"

"Nonsense," McKay said breezily. "She'll have cooked enough for you."

"Yeah," muttered John as he followed McKay down the stairs. "That's pretty much what I was afraid of."

***

McKay kept John busy across the next week, accompanying him on his errands—ostensibly to supervise, but John figured he was mostly bored with being stuck in his room, unable to write or make technical drawings. With Rodney tagging along, providing an acerbic commentary on everything from the poor engineering of the town's buildings to the idiocy of the local claims office, John arranged another prospector's license and bought supplies for the trip and complex-looking equipment from Campbell's store that McKay had arranged to be brought in by special order. He also hired two mules to carry the equipment and provisions, and a horse for McKay.

He persuaded McKay away from Teyla's cooking most nights, doubtless a relief for her as well as for John's stomach. Rodney became enamored of the roasts and spare ribs served at the saloon, and eating there soon became their routine. After dinner, they borrowed the chess set from behind the bar and played cut-throat tournaments, in which John managed to best McKay more often than not, to McKay's loudly-voiced incredulity.

One day, John brought McKay to see the horse Ford had arranged for him, a bay mare from the saloon's stable, gentle and well-schooled.

McKay eyed her with trepidation. "I'm not much given to riding," he admitted. "I prefer city living where there are civilized amenities like streetcars. Horses are too far off the ground. My brain's virtually a national treasure—well, in Canada, anyway—and I can't risk being thrown and sustaining a serious injury."

"You're not going to be thrown—she's a sweetheart," John reassured him, stroking the mare's neck and gentling her. "Perfectly docile, and Ford says she and my own horse Jumper are fast friends already, so they'll do well together on the trail. Streetcars aren't an option out here."

"No, more's the pity," McKay said gloomily.

John made him feed the horse—aptly named Honey—a carrot, catching his hand at the last moment and making him offer the treat on a flat palm rather than clutched in his fist. "Careful of those fingers, McKay. You don't want them in the way, seeing as how that's your only good hand."

"That damned hand is a trial and I''m past all patience with it," McKay muttered plaintively. He flattened his left hand out, visibly trying not to pull it back as Honey dipped her head. "I was bitten by a horse when I was a child, you know," McKay said tightly, as Honey took the carrot from his palm with velvet lips. "I suppose I was holding the grass the wrong way, but how was I to know?"

John took a moment to be thankful that the trainer at his father's estate had taken him under his wing after his mother's death from consumption. His father had retreated to his study and boardroom, and into the bottle. "You're doing well," he assured McKay. "Give her nose a stroke, now."

"N-nice horsie," McKay stammered, patting Honey's nose tentatively. She whickered and rolled a distinctly amused eye at John.

"There, you'll be buddies in no time," John said, hiding a smile.

As they walked back to the saloon, he wondered why McKay's hand wasn't healing, was still covered in bandages. Doc Beckett hadn't been happy with John either on the last check, applying more salve and shaking his head, frowning. The brand still hurt like a bastard, and John thought his chances of riding Jumper in only a few days were slim. He felt oddly unsettled at the thought that McKay might have to engage a different guide—it made him feel like hitting something.

He'd grown to enjoy McKay's company, snorting with laughter as McKay derided his scientific peers and discussing every subject under the sun with him. He would miss McKay's quick wit, not to mention his broad shoulders and... John ushered McKay back in through the swing doors and tried not ogle his ass too obviously.

"Zelenka!" McKay called, crossing to the bar. "I've nearly had my hand taken off at the wrist by a fearsome long-toothed beast and I need a shot of your best whisky." He waved at John. "One for Sheppard as well, since he saved my fingers for posterity."

Zelenka raised his eyebrows. "Showed him how to feed Honey a carrot," John said dryly, leaning beside McKay at the bar. Zelenka smirked and filled their glasses. Despite their rocky start, McKay and Zelenka were now good friends, debating the minutiae of engineering at great length.

John sipped his liquor thoughtfully as the two engineers returned to their running argument about standard versus narrow-gauge railways. Pleasant as the past few days had been, John was unhappy about the goddamn brand. He vowed to confront Beckett on the morrow.

***

Beckett sucked in a breath between his teeth. "I dinnae like the look of this one bit," he announced.

John twisted around, trying to see the brand which was still damn painful. "Is it festering?"

"No, thank heavens, but it's not healing either, and frankly, that's worse." Becket taped the dressing down again, then went to wash his hands in a basin on the side-table. "That's it for now—pull your trews up," he said over his shoulder.

"So, what's wrong?" John asked, as soon as he was decent again.

Beckett frowned. "John, I don't like to pry, but have you not located your soulmate yet? This has all the hallmarks of an arrested bonding."

John looked away. " Might have... not sure."

Beckett blew out an angry breath. "For god's sake laddie, you cannae go about with a fresh branding and not seal the bond."

John bit his lip. "Ain't an easy topic to raise in polite conversation, doc."

"So who is it?" Beckett asked, spreading his hands. "I've seen no one else with a fresh brand."

"He hasn't availed himself of your services," John said. "He's not too fond of physicians. Calls you charlatans."

Beckett snorted. "Ah, Dr. McKay, Teyla's guest, if I'm not mistaken. Aye, I've heard about some of his opinions. The townsfolk love to gossip."

John shrugged. "He's got a bandaged hand. He let slip that it's not healing either."

"The two of you need your heads banged together," Beckett said with some asperity. "Why in hell haven't you told him?"

"He said bonding was 'claptrap' and he didn't believe in it," John said, sighing.

"Well, he'd damn well better believe it," Beckett said grimly, "or you'll both be in serious trouble." He eyed John, face creased with worry. "This is only the early stages, John. It'll get worse. Much worse."

"Yeah, I know." John scrubbed a hand through his hair. "I'm no good at talking about this stuff, and I guess, well... I wanted us to get to know each other first."

"The longer you leave it, the worse it'll be when you–"

"Damn it." John grabbed his hat and stuck it angrily back on his head. "I thought that was an old wive's tale?"

Beckett shook his head. "I've seen it before. The longer the bonding's arrested, the less control you'll both have. It's not the best start to a new relationship."

John paled. A relationship. A soul-bond. It wasn't like he'd had a lot of choices in his life so far, with his family name and his father's expectations an iron hand on his collar. He'd left all that palaver to his brother Dave and traveled west to live his own life. _So much for that_ , he thought bitterly. Now his choices had been taken away again.

"Do you want _me_ to tell him?" Beckett asked, shooting John a sympathetic glance as he took something from a glass-fronted cabinet.

John sighed again. "Nope, I'll do it. Thanks for offerin', anyway."

He turned to go but Beckett pressed the small jar he'd taken from the cupboard into John's hand. "Here, you'll need this." There was no label. John looked at Beckett, puzzled. "It's lubricant," Beckett said, apologetically.

"God almighty!" John muttered, a flush rising in his cheeks. He stuck the jar into a vest pocket. Ears burning, he made his escape.

Beckett watched him go. "Aye, pray all you like, John," he called after him. "But in the name of all that's holy, _talk to him!_ "

***

Even then, it took John another day to broach the subject with McKay.

Given what Beckett had said, and the rumors John had heard, he wanted to wait until the rooming house was deserted except for him and McKay. There were no other guests right now and Teyla did her marketing in the afternoons, lingering to chat, so John fetched up there at one o'clock, just in time to avoid being invited to lunch and to hold the door open as Teyla stepped out, a basket over her arm. She greeted him cordially and told him to go on up.

Alone with McKay, John fidgeted and hemmed and hawed until even McKay noticed, and stopped jawing on about the history of the Colorado gold rush.

"What is it?" McKay asked anxiously. "Did the permit not come through?"

"What?" John blinked. "No, that'll be fine. It's… Look, I gotta talk about something with you, and I think you'd best sit down.

"Oh god," McKay said, feeling for the armchair and sitting, staring up at John, eyes wide. "Was there a telegram? Did something happen to Jeannie?"

"Your sister?" John shook his head. "No, no telegram. She's fine, far as I know. No, it's about this." He gestured at McKay's bandaged hand. "My injury's the same. They're not healing."

McKay's eyes narrowed. "What do you mean, your injury's the same?"

"I mean it's a brand, Rodney," John said, "like yours." It seemed pointless to hold to the formality of surnames any more.

"Mine's not a–" Rodney said automatically, but John cut him off.

"Yeah, the stable door's wide open on that one, and the horse's long since bolted. We both got these 'injuries' at the same time—when you got to town. I was way up in the Gully, but even there, it happened to me as well. It's a soul-bond."

Rodney's face had gone pale. "I don't–"

"Well, you better wake up your ideas, 'cause it's happened." Rodney looked grim, his mouth slanting downwards unhappily. "Why's it such a big deal for you, anyway?"

Rodney's chin tilted up stubbornly. "I lost my sister to a soul-bond."

"Jeannie?" Rodney only had the one sister, from what he'd said. "But–"

Rodney shook his head sharply, then dropped his face into his hands. After a moment he spoke. "She had so much potential—I made sure she attended the best women's academy in Toronto." He looked up. "Then she met a man, an English student at the university, and the brands appeared, and within a week they were soul-bonded and married. She dropped out of school and devoted herself to running a household and raising their daughter. It's a criminal waste."

"Madison?" Rodney had only mentioned her once. Rodney nodded. "Seems to me a child's never a waste, Rodney," John said quietly. "Are they happy?"

"I suppose so," Rodney said reluctantly. “But the loss to science… She could have been brilliant." He made a dismissive gesture with his hand. "Anyway, I don't accept it."

"Well, let me see your brand. If I recognize it, we'll know."

"Hmph. I note you're not offering to show me yours," Rodney said sourly.

John raised his eyebrows. "It's on a delicate part of my anatomy. But Doc Beckett drew it… wait… I've got the paper here somewhere." He searched his clothing, finding it folded small in his watch pocket. Unfolding it, he handed it to Rodney. "Mean anything to you?"

Rodney's face had gone even paler. "My first name's…" He pulled a face. "I don't like it so I don't use it, but it's Meredith. An old Scottish family name."

"Meredith Rodney McKay?" John asked. Rodney nodded. "Why the bottle?" John asked. "Those old Scottish relatives have a weakness for whisky?"

Rodney shot him a bleak look. "Very droll. It's a whale. My family came from Scotland a long time ago and were whalers in Halifax, Nova Scotia." He made a face. "I can't abide whales, myself. Enormous monsters lurking deep in the ocean, brrrr." He shivered. "I've avoided sea journeys for years—I thought in Colorado I'd be safe from the damn things, but no." He gave a humorless laugh and began to unwrap the dressing on his hand.

John leaned in as the skin of his palm was revealed. It was reddened, the tissues swollen and the raw, darkened lines of the brand clearly visible.

"Why the mustache?" Rodney asked, looking up at John who'd never sported anything more than stubble. "It's been puzzling me."

John swallowed. "It's not a mustache, it's wings." His ears burned. "Always wanted to be a bird, to fly. Riding a horse at full gallop's the closest I've come to that."

Rodney sat back in his chair, looking defeated. "It's true, then," he said quietly. There was a long, awkward pause, then he looked up. "What now?"

John shrugged. "We have to seal the bond, or it'll get worse." He waved at Rodney's hand. "Not just the brands not healing. Other things."

"Yes, yes, sickness and pain and then you die," Rodney said bitterly. "I read about it when Jeannie…" He sighed. "Not that she and Kaleb delayed at all. They had Madison precisely nine months later."

John straightened himself up and stopped leaning. "I'm sorry, Rodney. I've… this last week's been, well, it's been mighty enjoyable. I figured it'd come to this so I wanted us to spend some time together."

Rodney frowned. "You've been courting me?"

"Not exactly," John said. He rubbed the back of his neck. "Well, maybe a bit, I guess." He shot Rodney a sidelong look and attempted a smile. "You do have a spectacular ass."

Rodney snorted. "The smartest man in North America, and it's my ass you noticed."

John grinned. "Oh, believe me, the brains are a powerful attraction as well."

"You're not so bad-looking yourself," Rodney allowed, looking up through his lashes with a thin smile. "And smarter than you let on." He looked troubled again. "You think we can make a go of this?"

John spread his hands. "I think we don't have a choice, and that's what we're both kickin' against. Reckon neither of us like being told what to do."

"So what do we…? How do we…?" Rodney asked after a moment, flushing pink and not meeting John's eyes.

"Yeah," John said, crossing the room to turn the key in the lock. "Teyla's out, but we better lock the door anyway."

Rodney looked at him warily. "Why?"

"We're not gonna want to be interrupted," John said. "Look, did you do any readin' about what happens after a branding, if the bond's not sealed right away?"

"No. What happens?" Rodney asked, trepidation in his voice.

John sighed. "We gotta connect the brands, and then we won't have a lot of control over the, er, the bonding."

"The sex, you mean." Rodney sounded frustrated. "I was born in a whaling town; I can handle the terminology."

"Yeah?" John asked, lifting an eyebrow. "Well, I was raised by a governess and a horse trainer, so go figure." He swallowed, then fished out the jar of lubricant and set it on the night stand by the bed. "Beckett gave me this."

"Ah," Rodney said, catching on quickly. "So it has to be…"

"Yeah," John said. "You ever… before?"

Rodney shook his head. "You?"

"I've done other things, but no… not that."

Rodney stood and started undressing.

"Whoa," John said. "Wait, I…"

"I can't stand it anymore," Rodney said, his face grim. "Let's just get it over with."

"I dunno," John said, but he started unbuttoning, setting aside his guns and knives.

When they were down to an undershirt each, Rodney grabbed John by the front of his shirt and pulled him over to the bed, sizing him up as though he were an engineering project. John felt his half-erect cock harden.

Rodney grabbed Beckett's jar and unscrewed the lid, sniffing it, then thrust it under John's nose. "Any citrus?" he demanded.

John was aware of his allergy after hearing Rodney go on about it to Teyla and Radek when ordering food. He sniffed. "Nope. Smells of nothing." Rodney nodded, then set the jar back down, lid removed.

"Right. Shirts off," Rodney commanded, and John tried not to like being told what to do quite so much.

"Can't we, I dunno, kiss first?" he asked, his pulse racing.

"That might trigger it—we can't risk it." Rodney took off his shirt and began pulling John's up. After a moment, John let him.

"Hmm." John realized he had his eyes shut and cautiously opened one. Rodney was, dear god, peering down at both their cocks, which were fully erect. John shut both eyes again.

"Yours is a bit longer, but more slender," Rodney announced, as though he was talking about, Christ, railway gauges or some damn thing. "Mine's slightly shorter, and thicker.

John risked a quick look to confirm this. "Uh," he managed, ears burning, his voice a croak.

"So you should fuck me," Rodney finished, as though stating the obvious. He raised a warning finger. "But I expect to be loosened up first, so use that cream Beckett gave you."

He lay down on his front, then peered back at John. "Well, come on!"

"Jesus fuck," John said helplessly. He snatched the jar from the night stand then knelt between Rodney's legs, nudging then further apart. "Where's the romance?"

"I'll buy you a ring later. Get cracking."

"Yes, sir," John said. His cock twitched. He slid his hands over the curve of Rodney's buttocks, then parted them and stroked up his crack, over his puckered asshole. It seemed to clench more tightly. "Seriously, you're too tense," John said, sweat beading his brow. "I don't wanna–"

"Use the lubricant," Rodney gritted out.

John took a glob and spread it around, then pushed with his finger. Rodney's asshole was closed and padlocked. "This isn't gonna–" John muttered, then Rodney did something and he felt his finger slide inside.

"Oh god," Rodney said in a choked voice.

"Did I hurt you?" John had frozen, and Rodney's ass now had his finger in a death grip: he might never get it back again.

"No, just… put it in further," Rodney gasped.

John pressed in, amazed at how hot and smooth Rodney felt inside. He pushed his finger in and out to drag more lube in and make everything slicker, because slippery was what they wanted; slippery was good. He wanted Rodney slippery as a greased pig before he stuck his cock in there. He could manage if he lost a finger, but he wasn't gonna risk never getting his cock back again.

Rodney groaned, and the pressure around John's finger eased a little. "Yes, Rodney, yeah, that's right," John said, his voice low and hoarse. He risked pulling his finger out and getting another dollop of cream, pushing quickly back in. Rodney made a stifled noise and seemed almost to be rocking back against him. Emboldened, he pushed in further. Rodney squeaked and spread his legs wider, drawing one knee up. That made it easier.

"I'm gonna use two, now," John whispered, pulling out and slicking up both fingers, then pushing back in. It was tight again, and Rodney gasped. John pushed in further and Rodney made a whimpering noise in the back of his throat. "What? Is it too much?"

"Don't fucking stop," Rodney groaned. "Do it again … John, yeah, _please_ … _please_ …" he was fucking himself on John's fingers—was it the bonding kicking in, roping and trussing them, making them its own?

John was hard and desperate. "Rodney," he grated, "Please, I need to…"

"Yeah, do me," Rodney said drunkenly, and John felt his ass contract on John's fingers. Fuck.

He pulled his hand free and pawed at Rodney's shoulder. "Not like this, turn over, I wanna…"

Rodney scrambled over, panting, then he reached up and John reached down and they were kissing, wet and desperate, no finesse. Their bodies connected, warm skin sliding and their cocks rubbing deliciously. Rodney's hands came up and gripped John's ass and the brand on his right hand met the one on John's ass cheek. Electric pleasure like a bolt of lightning surged through them both.

He felt Rodney arch under him, vibrating, and in a second he had Rodney's legs up and hooked over his shoulders, and was in him, sinking ruthlessly deep on a tide of slick. Rodney was still tight and hot, ass fluttering around John's cock as he rutted mindlessly.

He was vaguely aware of Rodney making animal noises, writhing under him, then he felt Rodney cry out, felt hot wetness between them. The burning pleasure swelled at the base of John's spine and burst out from his cock, making him scream hoarsely, hips jerking like an automaton as he held Rodney down and took him.

His thrusts gradually lost rhythm and became sparser, more erratic, until the waves of intense sensation abated. Gasping, they lay sprawled half across each other, until Rodney pushed at him feebly. "Off, off, so I can breathe." John slid off but not out of contact, still pressed against Rodney all down one side. He was weak, faint aftershocks making him tremble, and he felt them running through Rodney as well.

"Hey," he muttered into the pillow. "We made it." He tried to lift his head but even his neck muscles were limp and uncooperative. He opened an eye, squinting at Rodney, becalmed on his back beside John, chest heaving. "You okay?"

"Yes, thanks to Beckett's foresight." Rodney shifted his hips experimentally. "Ouch. I don't think I'll be riding inside of a week, though."

John laughed hoarsely. "Me neither." He flexed his buttocks. "The brand feels better already, though. Yours?"

Rodney raised his hand and peered at it. "Yes, mine's less reddened."

John finally managed to roll on his side, facing Rodney. He kept a hand on Rodney's hip, though, somehow knowing they needed the contact. "So that… wasn't so bad?"

Rodney opened an eye and peered at him. "Are you kidding? That was the best sex of my life! I look forward to replacing desperation with expertise, though."

"Yeah," John said hoarsely. He was looking forward to the kind of expertise Rodney brought to anything he undertook as well. _Really_ looking forward to it. He licked his lips. "So you think we could try some of that romantic kissing now?"

"I don't see why not," Rodney said with a grin. He looked across at the windows on the other side of the room, where afternoon was giving way to evening. "We've got some time before Teyla calls us down to dinner."

"Hey," John said. "We survived a delayed bonding. We can survive Teyla's cooking."

He pulled Rodney on top of him and got comfortable. "I still want that ring."

"Yes, yes. I'll smelt it myself, once we've mined it."

"Oh, hey," John said. "Now I really am an actual gold digger. In every sense!"

"I'm going to need you to shut up now," Rodney said, leaning in.

"Make me," John said happily, and Rodney did.

 

***

the end

 


End file.
